The morning sun lifts above distant mountains,
futile against the strange cold of this September day,
sun’s rays impotent, unfelt in the fog-shrouded valley,
as we pine for the normal warmth of early fall.
There is certainty, as with all things nature, of change,
a return to the normal warmth from that same sun,
another day or weeks before the turning of seasons
brings the nipping morning chill in late autumn.
So it is with our search for constant Source.
Source remains a constant.
Only our degree of receptivity stands altered
by creeping mind fog obstructing its path.